Hello, my lovely, faithful readers. It’s been a while since I’ve actually talked to you. How are you doing?
Eight days ago, I finished writing the first draft of a novel I’ve been working on for a year and a half! It’s a huge cause for celebration, and also means I’ve started doing intensive research for the next novel I’m planning to write, this one as part of Nano Wrimo (National Novel Writing Month, a semi-controversial challenge to write 50,000 words in the month of November). I’m very excited about both of them.
In the meanwhile, The Kangraffs’ Curse is wrapping up: Three chapters left, if all goes according to plan! (Of course, with The Kangraffs’ Curse and The Weavers’ Blessing, things have rarely gone according to plan–did you know that the latter, a 130-page novella, was supposed to be a short story, only about 5,000 words at most? It kind of took on a life of its own and became a monster.)
Confession time: I’m having a very hard time ending The Kangraffs’ Curse. Due to authorial difficulties (read: I’m actually very sick of the story and want to be finished with it, but know that in order for that to happen I have to finish it), Chapter 23 will probably not be up until tomorrow.
As consolation for this delay, please accept this new poem:
Phospholipid Bilayer Membrane
by Beth Wangler
I learned the other day
about phospholipid bilayer membranes
that protect cells from harm, and it made me think.
In the days gone by,
when our hearts were young,
we still burned long after they were gone,
like pale skin too long in the sun
burning and changed
by basking in their nearness for a while.
Now our days aren’t many,
but our hearts are old,
and like rain on an umbrella,
they slide right off; we can’t let them in.
Like breath in an asthma attack,
we can’t hold on once they’re gone.
Like marker on crayon,
they barely leave a mark,
but I’m not sure that’s a good thing,
not sure that means we’re safe.
With our beeswax-sealed hearts,
I think we’re more broken now than
back when our hearts were young.